The Doctor and Mister Jones
by AdieAngel
Summary: Cuddy meets a man in a bar.  Mild spoilers for 7x09, "Larger than Life".  Awareness of Sherlock Holmes characters and general 70s mushy pop artists strongly encouraged.
1. She Meets Him in a Bar

As always, I'd like to thank my star beta, RochelleRene, for being the legit best, most helpful and most supportive beta on the face of the earth. I'd also like to thank the lovely Penelope S. Cartwright for help on the title. You ladies rock.

This story is complete and will be posted in two parts and an epilogue over the course of the next couple days. I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)

**House, Cuddy & Wilson belong to NBC, Fox, and David Shore. Sherlock Holmes, Watson, and Irene Adler belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. Tom Jones belongs to… oh, god, I don't know. Probably himself. No infringement intended.**

* * *

The Doctor and Mister Jones

She sips her wine slowly, considering her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Her hair is dark, long, and just shy of truly curly. Her grey eyes are shadowed in the subtle lighting of the room. Her brows arch gracefully, her lips are full and red and match the dark liquid in her hand. Her gaze wanders lazily down to the necklace at her throat, a single teardrop diamond on a platinum chain. She fingers it, smiling at a memory known only to her. She takes another sip of her wine, shifting her gaze to the room behind her.

A secluded bar, an anonymous hotel, a medical conference far away from her normal life. A bright California moon spills its rays through the nearby window, and the raindrop lights twinkle from the palm trees outside. Christmas is over, but decorations still sparkle as they arch over Wilshire Boulevard.

She glances down at her watch. It's late enough that the jet lag should have taken its toll, but she is wide awake on this mid-week night. She smoothes her hands down the full inky blackness of her skirt, tucking in the thin white lining. One black heel taps restlessly against the wood of the bar as she uncrosses and recrosses her long legs.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

She looks up, her gaze locking onto the purest blue eyes she's ever seen. She smiles slowly, seductively, "It is now."

She moves her purse from the seat to her right, slinging it over the back of her barstool.

The man, she notes, is tall, easily six feet. His graying hair is full but short, and his five o'clock shadow softens the harsh planes of his face. As he sits, she imagines running her hands along his scruff, the hairs tickling the spaces between her fingers. She shivers.

"Are you cold?" he asks.

She shakes her head, her curls bouncing around her face. From the bartender, he orders a tumbler of Maker's Mark for himself, then looks to her.

"Another Shiraz is fine," she points to her nearly empty wineglass.

"A Shiraz for the lady," he tells the bartender, who sets off to fulfill their order. His hand rests on the bar, and she imagines his long pianist's fingers running softly over the planes of her back, cupping her shoulder blades. Her breath catches, and she quickly takes a sip of wine to cover it.

"Lemme guess," he begins, "Medical conference. You're a… doctor, right? No, wait. Administrator."

She glares at him for a split second before correcting him, "Dead of Medicine. How did you know?"

"You have a pager hooked to the outside of your purse. The only people who carry pagers nowadays are doctors or drug dealers. Also, there's an Endocrinology conference in this very hotel right now."

"Well, that was an easy guess," she teases, arching a well-manicured brow.

"You also have a slight ink stain on your left middle finger. Paper pusher," he finishes with a flourish.

She lifts up her left hand, noticing the small mark for the first time. She turns back to him, "I'm impressed. A little insulted, I think, but impressed. And what do you do, Mister…"

"Jones," he finishes.

"Mister Jones," she repeats, humorous disbelief painting her features.

"Tom Jones," he amends, a twinkle in his eye.

"Tom Jones? Really? And what do you do, Mister Tom Jones? No, wait," She holds up her ink stained hand, "Let me guess. Detective?"

He smiles, "How'd you know?"

"The keen eye for detail, the improbable name: A regular Sherlock Holmes," she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Some would say I'm smarter than Holmes," the edge of Mister Jones' lip turns up.

"And where's your Watson?"

"He's upstairs, sleeping. It seems as though somebody drugged him," Mr. Jones furrows his brow in mock puzzlement.

"Who would dare do such a thing?" she inquires.

"I have no idea," he leans into her then, their knees brushing. A shiver travels up her spine at the contact.

"In fact," he continues, "I came down here to do a little… detecting… on that very subject when I came across a lovely lady alone in a bar full of strangers."

"Well don't let me distract you from your duties," she turns to polish off the last of her wine as the waiter returns with a new glass and Jones' bourbon.

"You…" he gazes over her features, his eyes gliding across her ample cleavage before coming to rest on her exposed knee, "are a welcome distraction, I assure you."

She blushes, "That's nice to know."

She leans into him slightly, smelling the soap from a recent shower, and under that, a smoky maleness that entices her even closer to him. He takes a sip of his bourbon, and she watches his Adam's apple bob as he downs the amber liquid. Her tongue sneaks out of her mouth to wet her lower lip, and Jones casts a sidelong glance at her.

"So, Doctor Dean of Medicine, what is your name?"

"Lisa Cuddy," she responds truthfully.

"Well, Doctor Dean of Medicine Lisa Cuddy, do you have any plans for tonight?" he reaches for her right hand with his left, idly stroking her fingers.

"Well, I _was_ waiting for my boyfriend, but he's almost twenty minutes late," she sighs exaggeratedly.

"The guy obviously doesn't deserve you," Jones scoffs,. "What's this boyfriend do, anyway? Is he a doctor, too?"

"Yep," she replies, entwining her fingers with his, "one of the best. He's brilliant, in fact. And funny, charming, romantic…"

"Sounds like an asshole," Jones scoffs, and Cuddy laughs.

"Yeah, he's that, too."

Jones works his jaw for a moment, then leans closer to her, their lips inches apart, "Uh-huh. Well, if he's so perfect, why isn't he down here holding hands with you and plying you with alcohol?"

"Oh, he'll be along in a minute," her eyes shift down to his lips. He moves closer, until she can smell the sharp tang of bourbon on his breath. She closes her eyes in anticipation, waiting for him to close the gap.

"Well, I guess I'd better get out of here before your boyfriend arrives," Jones quips, pulling his fingers out of her loose grasp to take the final sip of his drink.

Cuddy opens her eyes, sighing in frustration even as her eyes twinkle in amusement. Jones moves to rise from the barstool, but stops when Cuddy places her hand on his arm.

"Wait. Stay."

He looks down at her, his lip curling up into a smile, "But Doctor Cuddy, whatever will your boyfriend say when he sees us here flirting so shamelessly?"

She arches an eyebrow, her voice husky, "We'll take our chances."

Jones sits back down and raises his empty glass towards the bartender, shaking it. The bartender returns, refilling his drink as Cuddy takes a sip of her wine.

He turns to her, "Where were we?"

She smiles, pulling her hand through her hair, her dark curls glistening in the dim light, "Why don't you tell me more about this case you're working on, Mr. Jones?"

He tugs on his lapel in pride, "_Detective_ Jones, please."

"Sorry, _Detective_. How did your colleague manage to get himself drugged?"

Jones turns to her then, placing his elbow on the bar as he leans towards her, his eyes casting a suspicious glance around the room, "I think it was an inside job," he whispers.

Cuddy laughs suddenly, causing Jones to smile quizzically. "You think he drugged himself?"

"What?"

"Well, who else is on the inside? Isn't it just the two of you?"

He holds up three digits, "There's three of us."

"Ah," Cuddy nods, "Who's the third in this ragtag bunch of detectives?"

She sees his eyes sparkle as he watches her intently, "Every Holmes has his Adler."

Cuddy leans back, a playful pout on her lips, "I'm jealous."

Jones's eyebrows rise in surprise, "Really?"

"Is she pretty, your Irene Adler?"

"Breathtaking," he replies honestly.

Heat rises to Cuddy's cheeks as she gasps quietly, "S-so…" she stumbles, surprised at his honesty, "How do you think Irene managed to drug Watson?"

"I have my theories."

"Care to share them?" she rests her chin on her hand, elbow on the bar.

Jones sighs, "I gave her a bottle of pills a while back. Flunitrazepam."

Cuddy breaks eye contact then, her eyes downcast in chagrin. She clears her throat, then raises her eyes back up to him defiantly, "Flunitrazepam, huh? That's a pretty powerful sedative. Why would you give that to her?"

"It's a long story, involving me drugging her mother at her birthday party, and a show of faith."

"You drugged her mother?"

"She was being a bitch," Jones declares defensively.

"You don't just drug someone's mother, H- uh… Jones," Cuddy insists, ignoring the slipup even as she notices Jones's mouth twitch in response.

"I know that _now_. Believe me, I know. I gave her the pills as a way of – "

"Apologizing?"

"No," he quickly corrects.

"Atonement?"

"No," he insists, "saying Happy Birthday."

"Uh huh," Cuddy responds skeptically, "And now you think she used them to drug your partner? Why?"

"My theory? I think Watson wanted to get the hell outta dodge, but Adler had other plans."

"Oh really?" Cuddy uncrosses then re-crosses her legs, her black Louboutin pump brushing against Jones' pant leg, "What kinds of plans?" She moves imperceptibly closer to him, biting her lip.

"Well, it's our last night in Los Angeles. I think she wanted a night on the town," his eyes glide across her face, down to the teardrop diamond pendant that rests just above her cleavage. He reaches forward, running his hand along the platinum chain, causing Cuddy to shiver.

"Well, if you're here, I guess she's out of luck, huh?" she whispers, smiling as his hand traces her collarbone. "What kind of, um," she closes her eyes briefly as his fingers move up to caress her shoulder, "night do you think she had planned?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," Jones sighs, "Dinner, maybe a drink or two. Definitely sex."

Arousal curls in Cuddy's belly as she practically purrs, "That sounds wonderful." She rests a hand on his left knee as he threads his fingers gently through her hair.

"It's been pretty fun so far," Jones leans down, then, pressing his lips to hers insistently. Cuddy leans into the kiss, curling her free hand around his shoulder and pulling him closer to her. He sucks on her upper lip, and she nips gently at his lower before opening her mouth wider, inviting him inside. His tongue brushes up against hers and she moans. They kiss for a long moment before she breaks it abruptly with a hand on his chest.

"Wait, wait," she gasps, panting slightly.

"What?" Jones' expression is dazed, his eyes focused on her glistening lips.

"What if my boyfriend – and your Ms. Alder – sees us making out down here?" she drags her fingers slowly down the lapel of his sport jacket, caressing the fabric.

Jones looks around conspiratorially before clutching his cane in one hand and her hand in the other. He stands, leaning down to whisper in her ear, "Well, then I think we should go upstairs, don't you?"

She smiles up at him, "I think that's an excellent idea."

Cuddy grabs her purse from the chair as Jones pulls some bills out of his wallet, leaving them on the bar as the two of them make their way toward the hotel lobby. Cuddy hooks her arm in his, noting the slight limp in Jones's walk, "Is your leg okay?" she inquires.

"It's fine," he dismisses the limp with a wave, "Old war wound."

She nods in understanding as they head toward the elevator.

* * *

To Be Continued...


	2. Sofa King Cool

Jones jabs the 'up' button and they wait, side by side, until the doors rush open. The elevator is vacant, and as Cuddy turns to push the button for her floor, Jones moves behind her, brushing her hair aside and leaning down to drop a kiss onto her neck as the doors close. She steadies herself with her hands on the panel, her purse falling, forgotten, to the carpeted floor. Cuddy tries desperately not to press any buttons and prolong the trip to the hotel room as evidence of his arousal presses insistently into her lower back. She moans appreciatively, his tongue tracing the line of her jugular. His hand travels slowly up her left leg, the loose skirt lifting easily as his fingers caress her thigh. She gasps when his hand gently cups her sex, and he releases his mouth to pant in her ear, "God, I love this skirt, Cuddy."

He strokes her through her panties, damp with the stirrings of arousal. "I know," is her breathless reply as she pushes away from the wall with one hand, reaching behind her to run her hand along the length of his his growing erection through his pants. He moans into her ear and she turns her head, desperately searching for his mouth as the elevator dings and the doors glide open.

"Dammit," she curses, peering around the corner and down the hallway. She sighs with relief when no one is there. She picks up her purse, grinding her ass into Jones's crotch, then pulls his hand out from under her skirt, interlacing her fingers with his. They walk down the hall as quickly as his leg will allow before she pulls out the room key, sliding it in place with a click. The light on the door turns green, and she pulls on the handle. She barely gets the door open when he spins her around by her waist, capturing her lips with his. She moans appreciatively, her back pressing against the half-open door. As the kiss deepens, he leans into her and she stumbles, nearly falling backwards into the room.

"I gotcha," he tightens his grip around her waist, guiding her inside the junior suite. Her arms circle his neck and the kiss resumes as she hears the door slam behind them. She moans appreciatively as he drags his tongue against hers in a deep, probing kiss. She kicks off her black heels, backing up until her ass comes in contact with the back of the large, leather sofa, and Jones lifts her up to rest on its edge.

"Oh, Tom," she moans as his lips travel down her neck to her collarbone. He lifts his head, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Enough with the Tom, Cuddy."

"I thought you liked the Tom," she smiles, inexplicably aroused by the sight of his glistening lips, smeared with the remnants of her dark red lipstick.

"Not when I'm trying to seduce my girlfriend," he replies.

"But that's the whole point of this game, isn't it? To be someone else?"

"Oh, really, Doctor Dean of Medicine Lisa Cuddy?" he pulls back slightly, though their torsos remain pressed together, securing her against the sofa's edge.

She glares at him, "I don't like lying,"

"You mean you're bad at lying,"

"That's not what I said."

"But you are."

"Am not."

"Cuddy…" he whines.

"Fine, _House_," she heaves an exasperated sigh. Greg House smiles, nodding once before Cuddy continues, "Now, how about some of that sex you mentioned earlier?"

"Yes, ma'am," he grins as he leans down for another deep, searching kiss as he bunches the skirt up around her waist, his hands gliding softly along the smooth length of her thighs.

"Did I mention how much I love this skirt?"

"I figured that's why you asked me to wear it," she pants, pushing his jacket over his shoulders as he toes off his shoes and socks.

"You are the best girlfriend ever," he replies, removing his hands from her milky thighs just long enough to shrug out of the jacket and lift his button down and t-shirt off in one fell swoop. Cuddy's hands immediately move to his chest, her fingers gliding through the sparse hair there before she pinches his nipples enticingly. House growls then, his hands lifting the hem of her top to caress the smooth warmth of her stomach. He pushes the top up, and she flings it over her head, her lips crashing back down on his as she hears it make contact with a nearby lamp, knocking it onto the carpet with a dull thud. While their tongues duel for dominance, she makes quick work of House's belt and pants, shoving them to the floor as he kicks them out of the way.

Her bra follows seconds later, and House's hands immediately move to cup her breasts possessively before he leans down to press his lips against one turgid nipple. Cuddy gasps at the sensation, clutching his back as he licks and sucks her delicate skin before trailing his tongue down to her sternum and across to her right breast. She can feel his smile against her skin as his teeth trail gently over the taut peak, and she issues a throaty laugh in response.

"House," she breathes, her hands moving to unzip the skirt bunched around her waist.

His fingers still hers as he lifts his head, "Leave the skirt on."

"What is your obsession with this skirt?" she asks, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"You have your role playing fantasies and I have my hot puffy skirt fantasies," House teases.

"Really?"

"Really. Cuddy. Hours of entertainment after you wore this. Months, even," he taps his forehead with his finger.

"I haven't worn this skirt in five years."

"Doesn't matter."

She narrows her eyes for a moment, not quite understanding his attraction to this particular article of clothing.

"All right," she shrugs her shoulders, hopping down from the sofa and pulling her now soaked panties down her legs and kicking them aside. As she moves to hop back up, House stills her with his hands on her shoulders. His lip curls up mischievously.

"Turn around."

A graceful eyebrow arches before she slowly complies, turning and leaning forward until her elbows press against the sofa's edge. Behind her, she can feel House drag his hand up her thigh, pulling the loose fabric of the skirt with him until her ass is fully exposed to the cool air of the hotel room. She hears a rustle behind her as House removes his boxers, and she wiggles her ass teasingly at him, turning her head to see his reaction. Even in the dim light of the room, she can see his eyes dilating with arousal, his penis standing at attention. He is inches away from her exposed sex, staring in awe at her, his mouth slightly agape.

"I never get tired of this," he sighs.

She pushes back into him, rubbing against his erection as he clutches her hip in surprise. Arousal shoots through her as he enters her in one long stroke.

"Oh, god," she cries as her elbows lose purchase on the sofa's ledge and she stumbles forward, her sensitive nipples dragging against the soft fabric. She gasps at the barrage of sensation, her muscles tightening in response to his welcome intrusion. House waits while she lifts herself up, her left hand gripping the edge of the sofa. He begins to move then, in long smooth strokes that leave them both breathless.

She reaches back, clutching House's ass in earnest as he curls above her, his hand resting next to hers, their fingers touching. He brushes the coarse hairs on his chin across her back, and she shivers at the delicious sensation. House drags his other hand down over her breasts, tweaking a nipple before continuing its journey south to her clit. Her back arches at the contact, and her head snaps back with arousal. He pumps faster and faster, leaning forward as much as possible as she turns to meet his lips in a frantic kiss. Sweat beads her forehead, and she can feel her orgasm building quickly in her belly as she tries to pull House closer and closer into her. She can feel herself teetering on the edge of bliss as House presses his finger hard onto her clit, pushing her over the edge. He thrusts frantically until his orgasm hits, and Cuddy can feel his muscles give out as he collapses onto her back. Her arms, holding their combined weight, give out, and they both collapse over the edge of the sofa, sucking in lungfuls of air. He moves off her then, turning and sliding down the sofa to sit on the floor. Cuddy joins him moments later, and places a soft kiss on his shoulder. He looks at her, naked except for the puffy black skirt and teardrop necklace, and smiles contentedly.

"How's your leg?" she asks, still panting slightly.

"It's gonna hate me in the morning," he sighs.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

They sit in silence for a moment, content in their afterglow, until Cuddy's hand reaches up to touch the diamond at her throat.

"Thank you for a wonderful birthday, House," she says as she looks up at him.

"You're welcome," he responds, kissing her forehead, "I can't believe you drugged Wilson."

She shrugs her shoulders, "It's my birthday. I didn't want to break tradition."

House laughs; a full-throated, vibrant sound that somehow makes Cuddy feel even happier than she was before.

"You really are the best girlfriend ever," he leans down to kiss her.

"I know," she replies smugly before meeting his lips in a breathless kiss.


	3. Epilogue: Bad Influence

Epilogue

House opens his left eye, squinting in the morning light. The bed bounces, first gently, then heavily. He turns his head, noticing Cuddy sitting fully upright, completely naked, hair in disarray, with her blackberry pressed to her ear.

"Of course not," she whispers into the phone, trying not to wake the already awake House.

"I'm sor – will you let me finish?" she hisses into the phone, "I'm sorry."

House cranes his neck to look up at her, and she notices for the first time that he's no longer asleep. She rolls her eyes in his direction, though it's clear she's referring to the person on the phone.

"I promise. Wilson, I promise. I will never drug you again."

House snorts with laughter, pressing his head into his pillow.

"No, he is not a bad influence on me!" she punches the bed in frustration. House lifts his head again, resting it on her thigh, smiling as he kisses the skin there.

"Okay. _Okay_. We'll be down in an hour," she punches the End Call button with a little too much force as she tosses the phone onto the bed. She looks at down at House as he continues kissing her, softly ruffling his hair.

"You really _are_ a bad influence on me, you know," she sighs. His grin widens as he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her down to lie flat on the bed next to him as she squeaks in surprise. He leans over her, his arms on either side of her.

"I know. I love it."

It's Cuddy's turn to smile as she caresses his scruff-covered jaw, the hairs tickling her fingers. She pulls him down for a kiss, but not before warning him, "We have to be done in an hour."

He looks at the clock on a nearby nightstand, "I think that's doable."

The End


End file.
